A Throne of Swords
by Farra Gate
Summary: [Rewriting in progress] Emiya Shirou was reborn as Theon Greyjoy. AU
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _279 AC_

Being reincarnated was not as tedious as Shirou had always thought. He had never believed in such, until now that he'd experienced it himself. When he first opened his eyes in this strange unknown world, his body was that of a new-born infant. With eyes dazed and unfocused, he saw the woman who gave birth to him. She was beautiful; hair seeming incandescent red in the glow of the lit torches. She smiled joyfully at him, her eyes radiating warmth as she held the baby tenderly in her arms.

Beside the bed she laid stood a man with a severe face, his eyes only softening as he watched the woman and child.

"He is so precious, my lord," the woman said happily. "Our little Theon."

The man did not say anything but he did accept to hold the child when his wife offered. The newly-christened "Theon" observed the man just as he gazed at him. His hair that was perhaps once as dark as his eyes were now peppered with graying strands, and although he looked quite old, his hold was firm and steady. His face was perpetually locked in a strict and stoic expression, but the warmth and acknowledgement in his eyes cannot be denied. Indeed, who was once Emiya Shirou—the Wrought Iron Magus, was now the son of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, Theon Greyjoy.

* * *

 **a/n:** As you've all probably realized, yes, this is being rewritten. I've been planning on doing it for a long time now, I just hardly had the time, nor the motivation and patience, to do so. I'll re-upload the chapters again, and you'll find that they will be quite different than the old ones. Not much will change in regards to the plot, but I think the content and length will be different. Most likely, it'll be very apparent in Chapter III onward.

Thank you so much to the people who had read this story, and to those who will be reading it. I appreciate all the support and encouragement you have given me since I started writing this story, and considering that it was written out of a challenge from my sister, I had never thought that it will gather so much attention from you denizens of Fanfiction . net. You are the reason why I will continue to improve my writing, and perhaps indulge you all a bit longer, at least until I finish all my pending stories in this site. Well, with the rate I am going, I think that would probably take at least ten more years. Lol.

I am terribly sorry if I can't upload the chapters at a regular schedule. I am back to school after this summer, and I will just be more busy as the semester progresses. We will all just have to accept that real life is a pain in the behind.

Anyways, thank you again for the support.


	2. Chapter I

**CHAPTER I**

 _285 AC_

His life started in a fire. Amidst the flames that consumed and burned down hundreds of others, the inferno gave birth to him. The flames nicked and lapped at his heels as he walked over burned corpses and ignored the agonized screams of the people crying for help. Every step he took, he forsake a piece of himself in exchange of prolonged survival. His identity, his likes and dislikes, the things that gave him happiness, the people who cared and loved him, his anger and empathy; the fire consumed it with unmerciful enthusiasm like how it devoured everything that stood in its way. Finally, feeling empty and yet still burdened, he let go of his hope. The echoes of the anguished suffering of the people he stepped on just to keep surviving rang in his head like a never-ending mantra as he fell down the burnt ground. He was just a hollow husk of a human being with no definition nor purpose, and so, he welcomed death's embrace. One final time, he reached for the sky, light drops of rain moistening his palm, but it was just for naught a point; just a boy extending his hand towards the darkness. And yet someone held it. There was a brilliant flash of warm light and a smile; a broken man's smile. The man was so happy as he held his hand close to his face that he was crying tears of joy, as if he was the one saved and not the other way around. It was so beautiful. _I want to be able to smile like that_ , the hollowed boy thought.

Even in rebirth, Shirou's soul could not discard his origin and element. Even across dimensions and past reincarnation, his purpose would always be the same. He was a sword; forged and tempered in the firesof the Holy Grail War for a single objective; to save everyone. Even with a new identity and a chance for a new life, he was still as distorted as he was in his past life.

Sitting in a quiet, dimly lit corner of his room, five-year-old Emiya Shirou now renamed Theon Greyjoy closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in concentration.

"Trace on," he mechanically said as three of his newly activated circuits flared to life. He focused and went on the paces of Tracing in his head, green lines crisscrossing on his arms as prana traveled to his outstretched hand. The air wavered and light coalesced at the center of his palm. Barely a quarter of a minute passed before the sword in his mind fully materialized in front of him.

Caliburn, the Golden Sword of the Victorious, glowed brighter than the lone lit torch in his room, the holy light it emitted washing over him like the embrace of a long lost friend. It was one of the swords he saw from Saber's dream cycle and had unconsciously recorded inside his Reality Marble. He casted a Structural Analysis on the sword and found that it was not even a fourth of the quality he could Trace in his past life. It was a pity. Apparently, he had to develop his circuits again to increase its current output.

Reopening his twenty-seven circuits as a child was no less agony than when it was opened during the Fifth Holy Grail War, but at least it was easier this time around. His circuits were as young as his current body but he gathered it would increase in quality and output with continued use. Back in his old world, he had continuously and foolishly cannibalized his nerve cells and made his own magic circuits to cast the basics of thaumaturgy, leaving his original circuits dormant as it atrophied through the years. During the War, Rin forced it open but the damage was already severe. It was gravely shriveled and could only function to a fraction of its original capacity. Not that it ever stopped him, but it was a great disadvantage back then. Without Rin's help, Shirou doubted he could've survived the War.

Wiping the beads of sweat that formed on his brow, he willed the sword to disappear and it disintegrated to tiny motes of prana before completely fading. That was surprising as well, actually. There was less interference in his magecraft from Gaia and his traced swords tend to stay in this plane unless he intended it to vanish back to his Reality Marble. It could be that Gaia had little influence in this world or there was a completely different entity that rules the system of magic here. In any case, he doubt that he'd ever know because he wasn't exactly keen on studying theories back in his old world. It was mostly Rin who took care of that and then pounded it to his brain until he got at least the gist of it.

Shirou sighed wistfully at the thought of the raven-haired, twin-tailed magus. Tohsaka Rin was his best friend, his partner and mentor, and his lover in his past life. After everything they'd been through together, it was hard to believe that he'd never see her again. He wondered how she took his sudden disappearance. He wondered what she was doing now. She might be stubborn and temperamental, a shameless slave-driver, and a trigger-happy tsundere, but she'd always been there for him. Although she openly expressed her disapproval of his adamant decision to keep chasing an impossible dream, she had never asked him to change. Instead, she held his hand and smacked him upside the head when he did something incredibly foolish.

He shook his head to rid his mind of lives gone past. He had a new life now, a new family he should protect.

He stood from his place on the floor and started his usual morning regime of workouts. Now that his circuits were finally reopened, he duly crossed it off his mental check-list of things to achieve in this lifetime. He supposed it was high time to begin planning to reach his ultimate goal—conquering the Kitchen Keep!

After finishing his regime of exercises, he cleaned himself in the adjoining bathroom of his quarters in the Sea Tower and waited for his mother to accompany him to the Great Keep so he could have breakfast with the rest of his family. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere yet without someone to accompany him because his mother was afraid that he'll fall down the bridges, especially the swaying ones that only have ropes as handholds.

Seriously, Shirou just knew that Archer have something to do with his terrible luck. He can't believe that he'd been reborn in an era still fresh out of war and electricity was yet to be discovered. Not to mention he was born in a family that border-lined dysfunctional. His father was an ambitious, uncompromising, and belligerent individual that had a pride that shadowed the sun. His mother was fine and beautiful, but she was always skittish and constantly worrying about everything. He had two battle-nut brothers more than a decade his senior who had a tendency to stick to the saying 'punch now and ask questions later' and a tomboyish sister who wanted nothing but to follow her older brothers. Oh, and not to mention his uncles, in both sides of the family, actually. The less said about them, the better.

Emiya Shirou was reborn to a race called the Ironborn. Their reverent god was the Drowned God, a deity that was said to have spawned the first Ironborn when he ascended from the bottoms of the sea and borne a child. Theon Greyjoy grew up with his Uncle Aeron Damphair, whom was a firm believer of the said god, preaching about the traditions and principles and doctrines of the Drowned God and fretting about every little slight and desecration against the religion.

Ironborn were a people so far removed from the life he grew up in his past life. They were known far across the mainland and beyond the Narrow Sea as reavers, rapists, pillagers—the savage rulers of the sea and the riverlands. A fierce and hardy people who thrived in war, unmatched in their naval supremacy, and for the longest time, Ironborn had been the plague of the hinterlands. That was until three hundred years ago, until Aegon I Targaryen came and united the whole of Westeros under one rule, making all the kingdoms bend their knees, including the merciless and tyrannical Ironborn. Aegon roasted Harren the Black in the stronghold of Harrenhal along with his family, and then proceeded to hand the Salt Throne to the Greyjoys.

It was a long-winded history of cruelty, Maester Wendamyr would tell him, how the Ironborn would come with their ships, borne from the waves, and would spurn chaos and burn villages in droves, leaving but ashes and blood. The Ironborn were an old race, Damphair would say, existing way before the Andals invaded and spread on the land like weeds on tough soil.

The Ironbon had mellowed down for three hundred years now. Although some of the hinterlanders still tremble at the sight of their longships, the Old Way had worn out significantly. Ironborn no longer pillaged or reaved or done anything that took after the savagery of their ancestors. They just fished with their vessels, mined through their islands, traded with distant shores—even across the Narrow Sea, and laboriously farmed on rocks. It was not the most ideal way of life for a race of fierce warrior reavers, but it was their life now.

Some of the Ironborn still clung to the 'glory days' as they say, though they were now forbidden to pillage, the Old Way was but a mere memory. They just spoke of it on drunken nights and in-between finger dances now. Dueling with themselves to keep sharp and quick on their feet, and taking slaves from the Free Cities for their thralls instead of abducting them from their homes.

The Ironborn were a race of warriors to their core. 'The strong stood above the weak' was who they were no matter how much they were suppressed. It was the reason Theon held his first sharp knife at three, presented to him by one of his older brothers, and trained the basics of swordsmanship a year later. Shirou thought it was ironic; how he was reincarnated to a people of savage warriors who held weapons like extensions of their limbs. He thought it was fate's design to keep him from a life of peace.

His musings were halted when he felt someone trigger the bounded field he set up around his living quarters in the Sea Tower. It was a simple one that only warned him whenever someone was heading for his chambers or came looking for him. Bounded Fields was one the few branches of magecraft he was decently good at, what with his very specific origin and element.

He stood up and turned around just as the door of his bedchamber burst open.

"There you are!" Dressed in a black tunic and baggy pants, Asha Greyjoy walked inside her little brother's room with the grace and poise of a drunken ship crew. Her loose black hair cut short above her shoulders, making her look like a stubby little boy. "What's with your room, little brother? It's so gloomy in here."

Asha was his older sister by less than four years—or namedays as they say here, and his best friend. She was tomboyish, obscene in some ways, and had a love for the sea as fierce as his brothers had. Asha wanted to be a seafarer, traveling across oceans and seas with her own crew and captaining her own ship to discover uncharted lands. She wanted to be like Maron and Rodrik who led their lives guided by the waves and free like the wind that steered their longships. It was a free-spirited dream, and one that Theon could only encourage for his jubilant sister.

She drew the curtains that lead to a small porch overlooking the horizon. Sunlight flitted inside and the early morning breeze lightly brushed his red-auburn hair, filling his room with the fresh scent of the sea.

"Good morning, Asha," he greeted with a smile.

"It is a pleasant morning, isn't it?" she replied, hands on her hips as she gazed outside his window. "Well, you should get ready and come down for breakfast with me. We have a guest, you know."

"I'm already dressed, Asha. I was about to head to the Great Keep myself," he said.

"You are adorable, little Theon," she said with an amused smile, "and Mother would surely have my hide if you fell down to your death walking the bridges alone."

The reincarnated magus fought the urge to stomp his foot. That would be quite childish and he was _not_ a child. "I'm five, Asha. I can take care of myself!" If he'd seen himself in a mirror, he might have blanched at how really immature he looked.

"Of course. But you're not walking the bridges alone till you can reach the ropes with both hands, short stuff," she replied teasingly.

Shirou inwardly bristled at the joke. One of the annoying things that came with reincarnation was that he would have to wait years to grow up and unavoidably go through puberty (he suppressed a shudder at that) again. Before his death, he towered over most women and many men, now he couldn't even sit on a chair without someone helping him up. Oh, how he mourned his lost height.

"A guest? Who is it?" he asked curiously instead, not wanting to add any more fuel to his sister's teasing. Pyke rarely had any guests. What with nothing but uninteresting pile of rocks and hardy, scraggly, seafaring folks.

"I'm not sure. He seemed no older than twenty from what I've seen of him; he was so… slight. I heard he came from Kingslanding, or was it Vale? Are all people from there so skinny and fragile?" she asked back, head tilted in thought. "Rodrik could blow on him and he might topple over, I tell you," she gossiped conspiratorially.

"Asha, he's a guest! What would Mother say, huh?" Theon admonished with a gasp, mockingly indignant."And besides, she would not be pleased if you came to the table dressed like that," he told her, eyeing her attire wryly.

"Good thing I've already broke my fast then," she replied with a smug grin. "I'll take you to the Great Keep and then I'm sneaking to Lordsport again to fish with Eldiss and his brothers!"

"And you would leave me here in Pyke while you'll have all the fun?" he asked, feeling betrayed.

"You have lessons with Maester Qalen, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, Maester Qalen. I suspect he's been drinking before our lessons. I'm concerned he might have been too inebriated to realize that his student in arithmetic and commerce is merely a child of five years and barely two feet tall," he said with dripping sarcasm.

"Father wanted you to learn, little brother," she answered, finding the little boy's frustration amusing. "He didn't want you to end up like Rodrik and Maron who had more muscles than wit. At least one of his children should, and it will not be me, surely. Maester Qalen is just obeying father's orders but he is indeed dreadfully boring, isn't he? Tell you what, I'll wait for you at the gatehouse, then you can sneak in the wagon. It won't be comfortable but at least you'll have fresher air once we reached Lordsport."

"You can wait, I'm sure, but I doubt the wagon will," he said skeptically.

"Well, you'll just have to swallow faster, dear Theon," she replied with a smirk.

As they went out of his room, the two of them indulged in idle talks and jokes about the inhabitants of the fortress. His room was located in the Sea Tower, just as every member of his family did. To get to the Great Keep from the Sea Tower, one must cross three bridges, the first being a wooden hanging-bridge several meters long. It was suspended above the churning waves and rocky depths between the island towers of the Pyke.

The Pyke, the fortress that his father lorded over was dark, damp, and dreary. It was very old and was shakily standing on three barren islands and a few stacks of rock. Pyke itself was an ancient millennia old castle built on a cliff protruding out to the sea. Time eroded the cliff and left the castle's keeps and towers standing on three barren islands and stacks of rock surrounded by water. The keep, its towers, and walls were made of the same grey-black stone of which the rest of the islands composed. The Great Keep, Bloody Keep, and Kitchen Keep each resided on their own island, the towers and outbuildings on stacks beyond them. They were linked to each other by covered archways where the pillars stood close and by long, swaying walks of wood and rope when they did not. A curtain wall enclosed the headland and the cliffs, with the gatehouse providing entry.

The Greyjoys have been the Lord of the Iron Islands since the aftermath of Aegon's conquest, ruling from Seastone Chair here at Pyke. The Iron Islands were one of the constituent regions of the Seven Kingdoms and House Greyjoy was one of the Great Houses of the Realm. Balon Greyjoy, his father was the current head of House Greyjoy and held the title Lord Reaper of Pyke.

Aegon I Targaryen's conquest united the Seven Kingdoms under the rule of the Iron Throne, which was situated in Kingslanding. Maester Wendamyr always told them how the great conqueror rode a dragon through the kingdoms and made their heads bow down to the sheer power he beckoned. The Targaryens had laid claim on the Iron Throne for many centuries that ended nothing short than a coupleof years ago, when Robbert I Baratheon killed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident and the Kingslayer slit the Mad King's throat.

His father, Lord Balon, had cautiously stayed to dip his hand in that mess. The Ironborn kept to their words, his Lord Father would always tell him, and the Ironborn gave an oath to the Targaryens. The Ironborn isolated themselves in the Iron Islands, only watching as the mainland descended into chaos. Lord Balon relished at their belligerence, looking over as they fought for power and agonized to destroy themselves.

Such an interesting history there, and it all started not even a year after he was born. Shirou doubted the war just ended like that for he knew it was just the beginning of a bigger power struggle. He might have never been a ruler, but he knew about Saber's past enough to realize that the situation of the Kingdom was almost a facsimile of her reign. Snakes skulked in the shadows, hiding and waiting for the proper chance to strike. It would only be a matter of time before the Great Houses rebelled against the newly established leadership and then claw each other out to sit on the power vacuum.

Besides the impeding civil war, there was also something stirring in the north. Every time he'd breathe in the northern breeze, he smelled the pungent scent of mana—of death and ice. There was a great magic in these lands, and it was ominous and forbidding. The North was a long ways away from the Iron Islands, true, but the mere fact that he could smell the magic from there was disturbing. Damphair told him that the Northeners _worshiped_ trees—trees that have faces carved on them by the children of the forest, but they were just that; trees. _"And they call_ us _savages,"_ Aeron would sometimes mutter.

When they reached the Great Keep, Asha conspicuously separated from him and let him walk to the dining hall alone.

At the head of the table was his father, where he usually sat. On his right was Lady Alannys, his mother. His brothers were absent, which was to be expected for they were out on a voyage somewhere, again. His Uncle Victarion, the bulky man, was sitting a couple of seats away. His Uncle Aeron rarely joined them for breakfast since he became a full pledged priest of the Drowned God so it was not a surprise he wasn't present at the table. And finally, his Uncle Euron seemed already finished with his meal and was now lazily slouching at his seat.

"There's my favorite nephew!" the rambunctious man exclaimed after laying eyes on him.

Euron had been calling him his 'favorite nephew' ever since that day when Asha dared him and he'd struck his uncle's flask with an arrow right between his ring finger and middle finger—while he was drinking it. Instead of getting pissed, the drunkard captain was quite impressed, more so because he'd used a toy bow and arrow to accomplish the feat.

All heads in the table turned to him, including the unfamiliar one that sat on the left side of his father who might be the guest Asha mentioned.

"Good of you to join us, little prince," his Uncle Victorion added with a nod, considerably more mellow than his brother.

"Good morning," he greeted everyone as he made his way to his seat beside his mother. He accepted her helping him up his chair although it brought a slight sting to his manly pride. No matter, he'll grow tall soon enough. Hopefully.

His father waited for him to settle down before introducing him to their guest. His name was Petyr Baelish, a son of a small town lord in Fingers (Lord Balon did not shy from belittling the place he came from. Poor guy. He bore it with grace though, so points for him). The man was scrawny and small, had a trimmed goatee on his chin and a kind, unassuming smile. He was dressed immaculately in a black robe with the sigil of a mockingbird on his collar. Shirou didn't like him. He reminded him of Kotomine Kirei too much. Not just the way he dressed, but also the look in his eyes. He felt like the guy was scheming something behind his 'holier than thou' facade.

According to Lord Balon, he came as a diplomat from Gulltown,a small progressive port town on the other side of the mainland. Lord Balon asked for permission to dock and trade there, a possible haven for Ironborn from their voyages across the Narrow Sea, and the man came to Pyke to discuss the matters with his father.

Theon thought it was a great idea. Other races still fear of the Ironborn, a misconstrued and misinterpreted understanding of his people still isolating them from the rest of Westeros. Ironborn were thought as savages and pillagers, but they didn't even do that anymore. Ironborn were now miners and traders and farmers, a rambunctious and hardy people who fought among themselves every day to tame their thirst for battle, but no longer the monsters they once were. Theon thought that maybe, reaching out to the hinterlands and establishing connections with other fiefdoms would be the way to go. It was high time the Ironborn stretched and stirred from their lethargic seclusion from the rest of the world anyway.

After the meal, he fled from the Great Keep before his Uncle Euron could even think of dragging him to the training grounds and ran to the gatehouse so he could meet with Asha. They both snuck inside a wagon that was heading for Lordsport, as they usually did every same day of the week when the Pyke picked up storage. Although the ride was rocky and uncomfortable, it was worth it when they finally reached Lordsport where they could breathe fresher air and play with the other children.

Shirou knew he was too old to play, but he never had a childhood to begin with. He spent most of his days working out in the dojo, practicing his unprogressive magecraft in the shed of his house, or steal—erm, appreciating restaurant's recipes. Now he finally had the chance to enjoy a wasted part of his life.

Eldiss had a small wooden boat that they rode around the shore while fishing. It was a beautiful little thing that resembled the bigger longships of Lordsport, it had a mast and sails and everything. His brothers, Uller and Skyte andtheir friend Qarl were a few years older than Asha. They taught her how to control the ship while he sat at the bridge of the boat and watched the fishes swim by. Asha loved spending time with the older boys, most likely because of her budding infatuation with Qarl. Theon would look at her and the oblivious boy from time to time and snicker, in which Asha would reply by sticking her tongue out at him.

When the sun was at the peak of the sky, the two Greyjoys decided that they had to get back to the wagon lest it would leave them in Lordsport. Bidding goodbyes to their playmates, they made their way towards the trading post.

The Ironborn passing by greeted them as they walked, waving and smiling like they were celebrities as they passed by the docks. Longships of varying make ebbed on calm waters, gently swaying with the waves and winds. The smell of sea and salt and fish permeated in the air, and it was a lovely smell of home for the reborn magus.

He knew most of the residents in Lordsport, and in turn, he and his sister were well-known by them. They sometimes looked at him strangely as he curiously observed their everyday lives. They thought him especially peculiar, with his bright smiles and little hands and old, intelligent eyes. The Ironborn of Lordsport calls him 'Little Kraken Prince' with steadfast affection.

He was about to join his sister under the covering of the wagon when he saw a group children gathering around the side of the dumpsters.

"Hey, look Asha. What do you think they're on about?" he called to his sister, eyes fixed on the group.

Asha's head peeked from the wagon and gazed at them too, face lighting with curiosity. "Let's check it out. It'll only take a minute," she said.

She shouldered herself into the crowd, Theon on her heals, using her as a battering ram to navigate around until they found themselves at the center.

"It's just a cat," Asha said, finally laying eyes at the prone black animal lying dead on one of the waste baskets. "A dead cat," she added with a roll of her eyes when a boy poked it with a stick.

"It is, isn't it," Delran interjected, his little mud-smudged face grinning like an idiot at the prospect of a dead something. "Old Stormbringer caught the li'l thief stealing his lunch. Heard he almost cleaved its head off its shoulders. What's dead may never die."

Asha and the other kids chorused the words after him, paying respect to the dead creature and their Drowned God.

Theon side-stepped from behind Asha to stare at the bleeding gash on its midsection, only to see the slight rise and fall of its breathing."Look, it's not dead yet," he said. He walked towards the animal and felt for a pulse. It was weak and uneven, but he knew he could still heal it if he could just project Avalon. "It's still alive."

The group of children stared at him but his eyes were trained on Asha, pleading. What? He was a _kid_. He's entitled to have a 'can I keep it' phase.

The older Greyjoy furrowed her brows, contemplating his request. "Fine," she said with a sigh. "Wrap him up. We'll take him inside the wagon. If he dies on the way, I'm not helping you bury 'im."

He beamed at her, immediately taking off his outer robe to gently wrap the cat with it. He carefully carried the injured animal back to their transport.

"Thanks, Asha," he told his sister genuinely. She didn't know how much helping the cat meant to him. After all, it wasn't wrong to try to save everyone, including an innocent creature that was just trying to survive. He wouldn't be Emiya Shirou if he didn't at least attempt to help it. "And I think it's a 'she'."

* * *

In the Sea Tower at Pyke, inside Lord Balon Greyjoy's study, Petyr Baelish cleverly enticed the Ironborn Lord to a risky but promising prospect. It was a long drawn conversation but the old Lord did not dispute the alluring vision the petite youth painted.

"Why should I believe you?" Lord Balon asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You do not have to," Littlefinger replied, his well-practiced placid and humble smile plastered on his face. "I'm just an informant, my lord. Like a parchment of paper in the hands of the receiver, bringing knowledge but has no hold on the future, whether it might end up crumpled or burned to ashes. But you should consider the idea, my lord. What I suggest is what should have been your right from the very beginning. This is your chance to seize it. Your people do not deserve to till the land like slaves, my lord, you are Ironborns; you _do not sow_."

Lord Balon was silent. The more he mulled about the possibilities, the more beguiled he got, as was Petyr's intention. The old lord was so disdainful and haughty that it was so easy to manipulate him into stirring their conversationto greater prospects, the discussion about possible ports in Gulltown for the Ironborn a mere faux reason for his travel to Pyke.

When he later went out of the lord's study for the evening meal, he had a satisfied expression on his face, his objective already achieved. He gracefully sauntered along the Sea Tower halls, his room in the Bloody Keep his destination, when he bumped into Lord Balon's frantic youngest child.

"I'm sorry," the boy said hastily, not quite having his attention focused on him. He was carrying a wrapped cloth in his little arms as if his life depended on it. "Oh, hello, Lord Petyr," he said politely when he finally saw who he bumped into.

"Tis alright—Theon, isn't it?" Petyr said with a tolerating smile.

The boy nodded. He was quite an odd sight in this dreary and dull place—all big, round golden-amber eyes and bright reddish auburn hair. If Lord Balon did not claim him for what he was and Petyr had not yet met the boy's mother, he could have mistaken him for a Tully—or a Stark, he supposed.

"That's a very beautiful dagger," the child said, his eyes fixed at the pommel of the knife strapped on his hip.

"You have a good eye," he praised. It was one of the things he treasured, even considered a trophy. "It is—"

"Valyrian steel," the boy interjected, his voice awed.

Petyr looked at Lord Balon's child in a new light.

 _How did he know?_ he thought. He was about to spin some fake tales of heroics and imagined battles to tell the boy, but he'd never intended to reveal that particular detail. He dearly hoped this little brat wasn't as jealous and possessive as other noble children because he was not about to part with his valued blade.

"Indeed it is, little lordling. One of my most prized possession," he replied amicably. He tried to search his mind for anything to divert the kid's attention from his precious dagger. "May I inquire what is that you carry, my prince?"

His sudden interest on the boy's burden seemed to snap him out of his daze and his expression became worried.

"Oh, right. I have to go," the child walked past him with an apologetic bow. "Please don't tell anyone I walked back to the Sea Tower alone, especially not my mother."

"Your secret is safe with me," Petyr promised, amused.

The boy nodded gratefully and Littlefinger watched him scamper up the spiral stairs with quickened steps. Shaking his head, Petyr was about to head to the Bloody Keep when Theon Greyjoy paused and called back to him.

"By the way," the child said, "you don't have to worry. I have enough blades of my own."

Littlefinger raised a brow, watching the boy finally disappear up the stairs. An interesting child. He seemed to have guessed Petyr's coated intentions. _Enough_ blades—well, he did hear that his brothers and uncles gifted him trinkets every time they came ashore, some of whichwere weapons from far off lands like Volantis but he doubted any of them could match his Valyrian dagger in make. After all, it was one of the last remaining seven in existence; the best blades ever crafted.


	3. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

 _My body is made of blades…_

There was a world he remembers. The land—dry and barren—stretched endlessly on the horizon. The clouds glowing opalescent orange held gigantic gears that clanged every once in a while. Its sun was eternally trapped in one place in the sky, an endless sunset that accentuated the world's embitterment and suffering. There was no life in that world—not even a blade of grass, except its owner who stood atop a hill of swords. The only impressionable feature of that world—the one thing he could never forget, was the steel it possessed. Swords and weapons of uncountable numbers, from nameless ones to those that had legends known for generations, protruding on every inch of the desolate land. It all belonged to him, and yet it didn't; they were all real and genuine, and yet they were fake.

That world was his, and yet it wasn't.

That lonely and austere world belonged to a parallel version of him whom he met during the Fifth Holy Grail War. He was a man like him, chasing an impossible dream and led his life by a single ideal. That very ideal that betrayed him countless of times—even in death—and left him with nothing but regret and resentment for the path he chose to walk in the end. He spent millennia after millennia serving Alaya, the collective unconscious of humanity, as her Counter Guardian—killing one to save ten, ten for a hundred, a hundred for a thousand; always the few for the many. In many ways he could be perceived as a hero, and yet he saw himself as just another murderer. Time wore him off, and he later forsook his ideal, believing it as nothing more than what it truly was; a foolish, naïve dream of a foolish, naïve little boy inherited from a lonely, broken man.

That world was a manifestation of his soul and it depicted the man himself accurately—alone and bitter with no pride and purpose.

Opening his eyes, his view opened to a world that bore similarities to that of his parallel counterpart; the horizon stretching endlessly with swords and weapons of varied make jutting from the ground, the shifting gargantuan gears suspended in the sky, and a solitary hill was overlooking the distance. Besides that, the likeness of the two worlds ended there. Blades of grass, ankle-high and soft like fresh sprouts in spring, swayed with an invisible breeze. The sun was eternally stuck in one place in the sky, but it was that of sunrise instead of sunset, giving the world a characteristic ambiance of ever-persisting hope. Atop the hill stood a blacksmith's forge, smoke billowing from its chimney in puffs that coincide with every beat of his heart.

No matter how many times he came here or projected it to the reality plane, it never failed to take his breath away. This was his soul—a part of him that could never be taken away like how he could never be rid of his distortion.

It was vastly different long ago, especially when he opened it for the first time when he fought against Gilgamesh, the Golden King. It used to look like a complete copy of Counter Guardian EMIYA's—a desolate wasteland with nothing but swords. However, as his personality grew and he experienced the black, white, and in-betweens of life, his Reality Marble warped and changed with his every belief contested, opinion refuted, and perception challenged.

With the ease of practiced mastery, he pulled his two favorite swords lodged beside the grassy ground he stood. Kanshou and Byakuya sang a familiar jovial tune when he brandished them in the air, his small body immediately flowing through a series of katas that the swords fed his mind. Every swing, every form, and every stance wasn't his, but he easily performed it as if he'd been practicing them all his life. Though the married swords seemed almost too big and too heavy for his little hands and arms, he felt as if they were weightless.

He danced in his imaginary world—parrying, spinning, and attacking invisible foes that only he could see; discarding and pulling random swords from the ground and changing fighting styles that suit the weapon in his hand just as quickly. While his body meditated in the real world, here in his Reality Marble, he was in the Holy Grail War, he told Gilgamesh that against any other Servant, his Unlimited Blade Works would never stand a chance. Even with infinite swords, he'll never defeat someone who'd mastered one. That was his flaw, but with practice and tenacity, he could bridge that gap easily.

He didn't know how long he spent inside his world. Time has no essence there nor did the laws that governed space applied. Inside his own soul, he could never be exhausted or tired as long as he didn't run out of magical in his world, nothing else mattered except himself and his swords. It made him feel nostalgic and alive, his veins singing in choral crescendo as adrenaline made his body boil in exhilaration. He could've been there for another lifetime, and still he would think of it as a time well spent.

It wasn't until he caught a lethargic look of disdain from the corner of his eye did he stop and gave the new denizen of his soul a placatingsmile. Nonetheless, hecaved in to the commanding creature's demand.

When he opened his eyes again, he was inside his room in the Sea Tower at Pyke. The rays of the sun was peeking from his opened window, just barely visible from its rise on the horizon. Rin, the black cat he saved and named after his past lover, was sitting on the sill of the window, its long sleek dark tail flirting lazily as it hung down towards the ground. The cat's deep green eyes were fixed on him, pompously pressuring his absolute attention with silent exigency. She was ordering him to feed her this instant or he'll never have his quiet time for the rest of the morning.

Theon Greyjoy rolled his eyes with enduring fondness and slight exasperation. Even so, he stood up from his meditating stance on the floor and extended his arm to the snobbish cat who then climbed his limb and drapeditself on his shoulders like a hanging scarf, he now had a familiar.

The black cat he carried from Lordsport was barely hanging onto life when he and Asha reached the Pyke. When he had finally gotten inside the privacy of his room in the Sea Tower, he realized that he couldn't trace Avalon with his current output. Even if he tried, he might die with overexertion. So without a sliver of hesitance or second thoughts, he extracted the original conceptual weapon from himself and transferred it to the dying feline. He felt it glaringly when the magical artifact left his body—like a glass of water being emptied.

Avalon—the Everdistant Utopia, the sheath of King Arthur's legendary sword Excalibur—had been inside his body ever since that fateful night, when Emiya Kiritsugu saved him from the fires of the Fourth Holy Grail War. His injuries and burns were so severe that he shouldn't have survived that tragedy, and yet he did. Avalon healed his wounds with the help of Saber's residual prana from the previous War. It was the reason he could even be considered healthy after years of frying his nerves every time he created his own magic circuits. When the Fifth Holy Grail War started and he'd summoned Saber again accidentally, Avalon had been refreshed of prana without his knowledge since he still had no idea it was in him in the first place. Rin discovered it later during their stay in the Clock Tower, and by then, Avalon was already engraving itself in him; becoming an extension of his soul just as much as his Reality Marble was. It didn't even surprise him that even in reincarnation, his soul had carried it across.

There wasn't any need to remove it in his past life because he could project a perfect copy of it, anyway. However, with being reduced to a child and his magical circuits just freshly reopened, he had no choice but to extricate it from himself or risk the cat dying. He was so focused, so dead-set on reviving the cat that he didn't even consider the consequences of planting a powerful Noble Phantasm that was essentially a part of his soul and magically bonded to himself to a fading non-human. Not that he regretted it in the end but he was sure that if Tohasaka Rin had been with him then, she would have no doubt decked him across the Bermuda Triangle and back. After all, what kind of sane person would willingly remove an all-healing, powerful defensive artifact from himself just so he could save a God-forsaken cat?

It had been a week since that incident. It shocked him the first time he closed his eyes and concentrated on his connection with Avalon when he could suddenly see through the feline's eyes. He never had a familiar before, what with being a catastrophic failure in any spell or mystery that didn't have a relation to his origin and element. The cat had free access to his Reality Marble whenever he meditated as well and he could sense its thoughts and emotions—its hunger, annoyance, happiness, boredom; everything and anything it felt, nudging and nagging at the back of his mind like an annoying tick he couldn't casually ignore, and he could likewise converse his thoughts with the cat telepathically. He had also been quite surprised and fascinated when he found that it was developing a network of magical circuits with Avalon as a somewhat magical core, making him realize then and there that it was now closer to a Phantasmal Beast than a normal animal.

With that revelation, he decided to keep the cat (not that it had a home to begin with, anyway). Then again, he should have thought that through, too. He wouldn't have trouble not regretting that particular decision if said cat hadn't grown too comfortable around him that it started to show its true nature (damned indolent, attention-starved moggie). He supposed that was better than having a traumatized and anxious one but he just wished she'd stop bugging him when she wanted something. Especially when he's meditating. After all, he needed to strengthen his circuits if ever he wanted to get the conceptual weapon back from the annoying cat.

He peeked out of his room, looking if anyone else was already awake in the tower. The twilight of dawn had yet to settle so he reckoned the other Greyjoys had not left the comforts of their bed. He could've just asked one of the servants but they wouldn't dare loiter in the Sea Tower before midmorning lest his dear Lord Father show them his appreciation. He guessed even Asha was still asleep, and he'd hate to wake her just so he could have someone to accompany him crossing the bridges and getting food for his imperious cat. Then again, he could just go there on his own (seriously, he's physically five but he's actually an adult mentally), but his Mother would panic if she found out he walked there alone again.

Although… what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right?

After pacing in his room while contemplating his decision, the boy resolved to just screw it and go to the Kitchen Keep himself or at least look for Helya, the Pyke's keeper, so that his bothersome pet would finally leave his head alone. He had just walked out of his room when Archer's rotten luck worked its miracle again. His Uncle Victarion saw him wandering the Keep alone and had called for him. The reincarnated Wrought Iron Magus and survivor of the Fifth Holy Grail War paused and nervously fidgeted while he waited for the giant of a man to reach where he was.

"Where are you going, princeling?" the man asked, his face as stoic as always. Theon had rarely seen his Uncle Victarion smile since his second wife was taken with the pox, his first one by giving birth to a stillborn daughter. He was a good commander and a doting Uncle, but he was always very dour and lacked a sense of humor. Theon thought he needed to find a hobby or a new lady friend at least. He was very devoted, loyal and dutiful to a fault, and he would no doubt tell his mother if he ever went out of the Sea Tower by himself.

"Hey, Uncle," he replied, suddenly feeling uneasyabout getting caught doing something his mother wouldn't approveof if she ever found out about it. EmiyaShirou had never had a real mother or even a mother figure so he unconditionally loved and respected the one he currently has. He'd hate to disappoint her or make her upset in any direct or indirect way. "I, uh, wanted to go to the Kitchen Keep."

"Alone?" he asked again, his brows furrowing. When Victarion looked down at him with his impressive build and height, little Theon felt like shrinking on the floor.

"I'm sorry, Uncle. Rin is hungry," he blurted out, his hand instinctively landing on the furball's head and his eyes going wide with telegraphed innocence as if saying 'it was all the cat's idea'.

The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet gave a skeptical look at the unperturbed creature wrapped around his neck.

"I see." He didn't seem to but the hulking man deigned to leave it at that. "But you do remember that your Mother forbade you from leaving any of the Keeps or Towers alone, aye?"

"I did, Uncle," he replied meekly.

"Very well. If you really want to go there, I can accompany you," Victarion said.

"Really?"

"If you promise to train with Dagmer later, nephew," his uncle added with a twinkle in his eyes, his lips stretching into a smirk.

Theon's eyes widened.

Dagmer Cleftjaw was the instated Master-at-Arms of Pyke. He had seen him around the fortress sometimes but he hadn't met him officially yet. Dagmer was an old man with greying hairs and was even bigger than his Uncle Victarion. He had a horrible scar that ran across his whole face, splitting his lips into four parts. That man was said to have been the source of most children's nightmares all around the Keep because of his appearance but was nevertheless well-respected because of his conquests abroad during his youth. He was a prideful man, but he wasn't as prickly as his Lord Father although they were said to have grown up together.

"Okay," he reluctantly agreed.

His Uncle Victarion gave him one of his rare smiles. "Excellent," he said. "Come one, nephew. We wouldn't want your little kitty-cat dying of starvation, aye?"

He nodded at the man, following him along the corridors of the Sea Tower to head towards the Kitchen Keep.

"Say, Uncle Vic, what is Iron Price?" he asked innocently as they walk, getting his curiosity the best of him. He had asked about it once to his mother but she had been very vague when she heard the word come out of his mouth. It seemed she didn't want him to learn about it yet. He had forgotten about it until now that the subject of Dagmer came up.

Dagmer loved to brag about the treasures he acquired through Iron Price. Iron Price bought everything he wore and carried on his person, he would gloat.

Victarion gave him a side-glance, his brow raised a little. "It is what we Ironborns pay."

"Like currency?" the confused boy asked. If it was just money, then why was his mother so skittish about him knowing about it? Ironborn had no coins like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms; they merely bartered their services and goods in ports for other products. Uncle Aeron told him that was because Ironborn do not pay the Gold Price; it was against the Drowned God's ways.

"Somewhat. It is the way of the Ironborns, little one. Have your teachers yet to educate you of our history and culture?"

"He skimmed on it," he replied with a dismissive wave. Although the Ironborn were thought to care too little for reading and academics, Theon and his siblings still had a noble's education like all noble children in the Seven Kingdoms. Maester Qalen was his teacher in commerce and arithmetic while Maester Wendamyr handled politics and history. The two Maesters moved to the Pyke from the Citadel, Maester Qalen more recently since he just replaced the previous Maester whom Lord Balon executed for failing to heal his Uncle Urrigon. That happened before he was born; apparently, Uncle Urrigon lost his arm in a finger dance, and then it got infected. The Maester could do nothing for him, and it had infuriated Lord Balon that he ordered for the Maester's head. Maester Wendamyr and Maester Qalen were knowledgeable old men, but the people of Pyke scorned them behind their backs because they weren't Ironborn, calling them 'Outsiders'. "I like the Maesters. They're nice," he added.

Victarion let him walk in front of him as they crossed the first bridge from Sea Tower, watching his every step like a hawk. Shirou rolled his eyes at that. The man was afraid he'll miss a step and fall down from the walks of wood.

"Hmm… I see the Maester had failed in his duties if he'd neglected to teach you the Old Way of the Ironborn," Victarion said with a frown. "Perhaps your lessons with old Dagmer would be more beneficial than I thought."

"Why?" Theon asked, confused.

"You'll see, little prince," his uncle replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "Dagmer is an Ironborn to his very core, desperately clinging to the Old Way. He might be a little rough around the edges but," he paused, looking over the small form of his five-year-old nephew, "I'm sure you can handle him."

* * *

The Kitchen Keep was a buzzle of activity when they reached it. It was further inland than the Bloody Keep for better access to the kennels, stables, and livestock that were located on the headland. The temperature there was hotter than any of the other keep and towers because of the multiple furnace burning steadily while the food boiled and steamed, servants were scurrying in every direction as they prepared the morning meal of the entire fortress.

Rin perked up at the smell of fish permeating in the air, her green eyes already gleaming with the prospect of food. Theon on the other hand, let his eyes wander around the keep, his mind immediately taking in how everything worked and calculating how he could someday conquer this particular Keep. The reincarnated magus smiled to himself, his hand already itching to cook something.

With the permission from his uncle, Theon and his cat were allowed to wander around, the black feline already having a plate of grilled fish to guzzle down. Victarion watched with open interest as his youngest nephew darted around the Keep, talking to the thralls and servants and sometimes offering his help which had taken a few of them aback, but they did tolerate him with enduring patience and slight amusement. The boy was so lively and full of energy that the Keep seemed to grow brighter, his smiles, curiosity, and excitement infecting those he interacted with.

It wasn't until the cat came back to him, purring and mewing to be carried again, did the boy sighed and bade farewell to the cooks. The servants watched the youngest Greyjoy leave the Kitchen Keep with his uncle, a bit disappointed but nonetheless pleased to have gotten to know the little boy better. He was an anomaly, that one. Quite different and so unlike the rest of them scraggly, hardy, and uncompromising ironmen.

"You took your time," Victarion commented on their way to the training grounds.

Theon smiled at his uncle. "I want to cook, Uncle," he said.

Victarion chuckled. Oh, how Balon's head would roll if he ever heard that one come from his own son's mouth.

"You will have your chance, little prince," the older Greyjoy replied.

They found Dagmer Cleftjaw already in the training grounds, his form towering over most of the people there and with his white hair, long unkempt white beard, and disfigured appearance, he wasn't hard to spot. Not to mention that most of the training men gave him a wide berth and hadn't stood within a meter of him. His uncle easily called him over, and the huge man ambled towards their direction.

Theon inwardly raised a brow at the golden and jeweled rings and bangles bound in his fingers, wrists, and neck. They were shiny and luxurious that he doubt it was made here in Pyke or anywhere within the Iron Islands. He wondered where he had gotten them.

"Dagmer," Victarion greeted, impassive as ever.

"Victarion," the man greeted back, "and li'l Greyjoy," he added when his eyes turned to Theon.

"Your new recruit," Victarion said. Count on him to be blunt and direct to the point.

Dagmer stared down at Theon, his brows furrowed in skepticism. "Aye. I supposed Balon had decided sooner rather than later. The Lady coddles 'im too much."

"He has yet to know the ways of the Ironborn," his uncle informed.

"Figures," Dagmer said with understanding. "I say he's too soft. Look at 'im and his wide puppy-dog eyes and innocent face. When I'm through with 'im, he'll be standing straight like a real man!" Dagmer declared, his split lips raining spit and his yellowing teeth peeking with his every word.

"Theon, meet Dagmer Cleftjaw, Master-at-Arms of Pyke. Dagmer, my youngest nephew, Theon Greyjoy," Victarion introduced them, thrusting the five-year-old in front of the large man.

Dagmer nodded at the boy, his four lips stretching to accommodate a smile. "I heard of 'ya. Heard from Crow's Eye ya're a decent archer for a kid. Gone again, that scallywag, aye?" he asked Victarion who merely gave him a nod and then addressed the youngest Greyjoy, "Boy, how good a shot do 'ya think you are?"

Theon squinted in thought as he looked up at the gigantic man, stealing a quick look at his quiet uncle. "Good enough," he replied.

Dagmer gave him an amused smirk. He gestured them to follow him and they came to an archery range. Theon had been here before, whenever Euron Crow's Eye was onshore and the grounds were vacated. His Uncle Euron was quite enthralled to watch him shoot arrow after arrow and hit the bull's eye every time no matter the distance of the target. That drunkard had sailed away again the same time Lord Petyr Baelish left the Pyke. Good riddance, he supposed. He never really like those two anyway; Petyr was a scheming, deceitful snake while his Uncle Euron was a rambunctious, crude, and uncivilized savage—a prime specimen of the ironmen, really.

Dagmer supplied him with his equipment while he telepathically nudged his cat and urged her to get down from his shoulders. Rin gave him a scathing look, something the real Rin would approve of, but she did get off and lazily sprawled on the ground the rays of the sun reached. Rolling his eyes, he performed a few stretching exercises to warm up his muscles, he really did not want to deal with cramps later. That done, he took the provided bow and arrow and eyed the target that was forty meters away from him.

Dagmer and Victarion watched as the boy took a stance, his arrow nocked and ready. Japanese Archery was different from the Western Style, but its paces could still be applied on it. There was a heartbeat of silence, and then he let the arrow fly and it struck true—dead center of the target. Victarion was impassive as always; Dagmer was impressed.

Dagmer offered him another arrow, his eyes obtaining a challenging glint. "Was that a lucky shot?"

The reincarnated magus took the arrow, he drew his bow again and let it loose without looking at the target. The arrow sailed through the air and landed exactly where the previous one was lodged, splintering its predecessor in half.

"You tell me," the boy countered, his smug smile answering the challenge.

"Impressive, princeling," the older man said, handing him a full quiver this time.

The other trainees stopped their activities to look at the spectacle. They have never seen it before, how the boy of merely five shot arrows with extraordinary skill and striking true every time. Archery had never been a valued skill among the Ironborn because its discipline did not blend well with their brutish way of battle and the average ironman preferred their battleaxes anyway. Still, the sight of the young Greyjoy while he performed the feat was astounding. There was beauty in his grace, and that they could admire.

"Your nephew's a deadshot, aye?" Dagmer told Victarion when the quiver was finally empty, the target peppered with arrows clustered at its painted red center.

"That he is, without a doubt," Victarion replied, his eyes shining with pride.

"What about when the target is moving? Care to prove your skill again, li'l Lord?" Dagmer said, squinting at the little red-headed boy.

Theon raised his eyebrows. He was starting to dislike the way Dagmer was going with this. "What do you mean?"

The man smirked at him, his four lips looking almost cruel. He turned to one of the people in the grounds and ordered, "Get a thrall to bring an apple here, will 'ya!"

Thrall? He'd heard of that word before. It was a well-used term when the ironmen were mentioning a few servants around the Pyke. Theon didn't know what it meant because his mother refused to talk about it, neither did Asha or his brothers had given him a straight answer whenever he asked. They told him he'll know when he's a bit older. And maybe he'll want one too, probably, they cajoled with teasing smiles.

A few minutes later, a so-called 'thrall' came to the archery range. She was a girl in her teens, dressed in patched up black clothes and was about twice his height. She was carrying an apple the size of her fist close to her chest, her brows furrowed in anxiety as she got closer to Dagmer. The large old man told her to get at the center of the range with the apple held in her mouth. The thrall obeyed without a question and Dagmer's smirk only grew wider, getting a good slap at the girl's rear as she passed him. Theon's eye twitched at that, suppressing the sudden urge to project a sword and cut the old lecher's hand.

"There's your moving target, lordling," Dagmer said, gesturing at the girl.

"What?" Theon asked with disbelief, not at all pleased. "I'm not shooting a person! What if I missed?" _Not likely_ , he thought, _but I'm not taking any chances._

"Not the _thrall_. Aim for the apple, boy, lest you'll do hit her neck. Well, that could do nicely for a target too if you want," Dagmer replied with a chuckle, his large stomach trembling up and down.

Theon felt his hackles rise in anger. "I'm not shooting her," he said resolutely, lowering his bow.

All humor Dagmer had disappeared from his face. He shot a deadpanned look at his Uncle Victarion before giving the boy a stern stare.

"I told you," Victarion said, "he's still ignorant on the ways of the Ironborn. He hasn't even yet to watch a fingerdance once. Lady Alannys made sure of it."

"I know what a finger dance is," Theon said defensively, almost indignant. "It'sa traditional pastime in parties, but you can lose a limb if you don't know the steps."

A finger dance was an Ironborn tradition. People participating in the dance would step in a circle and dance to a rhythm of claps, footfalls, and reaver's songs while throwing and evading sharpened axes at each other. It was the only way the Ironborn knew how to dance, the same way they lived their lives—with stakes high and limbs on the line. His Uncle Damphair had lost a couple of fingers through doing that dance, and it was the reason why his Uncle Urrigon died of infection. Shirou Emiya would never approve of it, but it was a tradition that couldn't be easily broken, and especially not by him. It was a part of the Ironborn's lives. Besides, his people knew of the risks and never forced anyone to partake in the dance unless they wanted to. Being goaded and peer-pressured was another matter entirely, however.

Dagmer's brow furrowed further in thought, and then he crouched down to Theon's level, his calloused hand resting on the boy's shoulder. "In that case, let me the first to tell you, my boy, what it means to be an Ironborn.

"Ironborn are fierce men of the sea, we do not farm the lands or toil in the mines—that is work for the slaves and thralls we took from the hinterlands. We _rape, reave, pillage, and plunder_. We do not thrive in peace for war is in our blood. Our Drowned God made us to take what we want by right of strength, to carve out kingdoms and write our names in history through blood and iron and fire."

The boy's eyes widened, his face growing more and more horrified with every word that came out of Dagmer's mouth. At his final statement, he grabbed the hand laid on his shoulder and pushed it away. "That was a long time ago. The Ironborn had forsaken the Old Way for three centuries! That's against the law now, the Maesters said so," he argued. "My brothers—"

"—voyagebeyond the Seven Kingdoms to reave distant shores!" Dagmer interjected, frustrated at his denial."How do you think they got the little trinkets they gave 'ya? We find neither honor nor pride in tokens bought by gold and silver unless we paidthe Iron Price, boy. Do you see these?" Dagmer presented his rings, "I acquired these by paying the Iron Price. I defeated their previous owners, and then pilfered their belongings from their _chilling corpse_!"

The two of them glared at each other, the little boy looking especially upset while the older one had his split lips twisted into a snarl.

Theon refused to believe him. His two brothers were crazy adrenaline junkies, but they were just big softies underneath their tough exteriors.

Even though there was a large gap between their age, Rodrik and Theon were close. He was almost tenyears Theon's senior, had a beard that made him look older than he truly was, and had scars on his face that spoke of the battles he had survived. Despite his roguish and rugged appearance though, he was a very amiable and pleasant person. He captained his own ship just like all high-born of Pyke did, and had been rarely home this past few months. Maron was the second eldest son of Lord Balon Greyjoy and he was a seafarer by heart. Unlike Asha and Rodrik who inherited their father's raven hair, Maron had the same auburn hair as Theon, although it was more brown than red. He was a couple of years younger than Rodrik and yet have sailed the seas just as assiduous as the latter. There was nothing more thrilling to Maron than riding the waves towards the next port.

They couldn't have done what Dagmer insinuated. They _wouldn't_ … a dark feeling settled on the little boy's gut. Suddenly, the exquisite gifts and trinkets they gave weren't as appreciated anymore.

"Then if you're as tough as you think you are, why don't _you_ put the apple in your mouth and stand there in her place," Theon angrily snapped at Dagmer, pointing at the terrified girl in the field and stirring the argument back on track. He'll think about other things later. "I promise I won't shoot your neck."

Another glaring contest ensued. Victarion watched on the sidelines with a frown on his forehead, unwilling to get between the spats of the two.

"That's enough!" a booming voice suddenly interrupted. Theon turned to look at the angry face of the Lord Reaper of Pyke. He was ambling towards them, his black robes swaying with every step he took. An angry snarl was set on his face and his eyes were filled with anger. In his hand he carried his battleaxe, threatening anyone who came within a meter of him. The crowd that gathered around the training grounds parted like the Red Sea to give him way. "Shoot her _now_ , Theon," he said gravely.

"No," the boy replied firmly.

"You dare defy me? Your own Lord and father?" Lord Balon asked in a low voice. He brandished his battleaxe and aimed it at the girl. "If you don't, I will. And I won't care if I take her head off in the process."

The reincarnated magus gritted his teeth, his jaw squared while meeting his father's eyes with his own. "Fine."

Theon, known in the past as Emiya Shirou, drew his bow again, an arrow nocked and pointed at the girl in the range. The girl looked at him, at the pointed end of the arrowhead aimed at her, and to the spectators silently watching the scene.

"Close your eyes and run," Theon told her. "And remember to never turn your back on me."

There was only fear in her eyes but she still nodded. She didn't have a choice anyway but to put her life in his hands—a five-year-old's hands. She was a simple girl and she had nothing but toil and slavery ever since the Ironborns invaded their shores and taken her captive, violated and abused in every possible way. Death would be a welcomed reprieve. So she ran—sideways, with her eyes tightly closed. She barely took two steps when the apple she held in her mouth was ripped off her teeth, pinned to the ground with an arrow lodged on its center.

"There," the little boy said with unbridled anger. Everyone was surprised when he threw the bow in his hands and glared straight up his towering old father. "Does that satisfy you, Lord Balon?"

There was something terrifying in the shadowed streaks of the small boy's golden-amber eyes; something strong and full of steel. All of them saw it, it was almost tangible and corporeal—like a sword drawn and ready to strike. His small hands curled and uncurled in loose fists beside him, as if he's grasping for imaginary handles only he could see.

No one stopped him when he scooped the black cat mewing at his legs and took the quivering girl's hand to lead her out of the training ground and towards the keeps. Lord Balon moved to call out his name, but Victarion held his shoulder. With a furrowed brow, the Lord Reaper of Pyke watched him disappear out of his sight.

If the Wrought Iron Magus had stayed even just a moment longer, he would have known that his feared concerns about the Seven Kingdoms were already starting. Lord Balon Greyjoy ordered the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet that it was time he gathered the other Lord Captains. The Ironborns will soon declare independence from the Iron Throne and prepare to rebel against it. His grandfather's father gave a vow to the Targaryens, but not to the Iron Throne. Robert I Baratheon was not his king, and he would serve no more kings. For Ironborns never accept a crown given away by men; they moved to take it themselves.

 _We do not sow._

* * *

Lady Alannys quelled her growing worries as she wandered around the Pyke's keeps and towers to look for her missing youngest son. The little boy had missed his breakfast and lunch, and the sun was already nearing to set. She had heard what happened this morning, and she suppressed a bout of anger that budded inside her. She had pampered him too much according to her husband, and that was the reason the child was too soft. Lord Balon told her that he wouldn't be a child forever.

She found him later with the help of some directions from a thrall girl, brooding in one of the open verandas of the eastern tower. The little boy was huddled at the foot of the corner railings, gazing at the sea while his black cat curled comfortably beside his feet. His short ginger hair swayed with the cold late afternoon breeze and his eyes looked like pools of molten gold as it reflected the setting rays of the sun. He was too picturesque that Lady Alannys almost didn't want to break his little peace.

"Theon," she called to him, sweeping her long dress gracefully and taking a seat right beside him on the cold stone floor.

The boy held himself tighter, almost as if shrinking away from her. Alannys gave him a moment, letting him sulk in his little bundle of safety before gathering him on her lap. He was tensed at first, his shoulder taut and his spine rigid. She ran her hand on his back and kissed his forehead, and her brave, bright child eased in her arms as he always did. It didn't even take a minute before he was already returning the hug.

"Forgive me, my love," the lady whispered in his ear softly. "I should have told you sooner."

"Her name is Daena," the little boy murmured sadly.

 _Daena? Who—_

"She was thirteen, Mother, when she was taken from her family. Now she's a slave here in Pyke, had been for more than five years."

Lady Alannys kept quiet, just soothingly rubbing his back. She already knew the cause of her boy's melancholy.

"Is it true, Mother? Do Rodrick and Maron really—?" Theon lifted his head to look at her, his eyes desperately searching her face for reassurance.

The Lady's face softened, her hands moving to pinch his chubby cheeks. "Of course not," she replied with a huff, a mock exasperated expression on her face. "Three hundred years ago, they might have, but no son of mine will ever be a savage while I still live and breathe."

Lady Alannys was as much an Ironborn as the rest of her people. When there was not much discrimination among genders where you live, women tend to thrive and bloom into stronger individuals, sometimes even stronger than the men. The Mistress of Pyke was far from the fragile and delicate lady she liked to show in court, no, she was a warrior like any Ironborn worth her salt. She was also cunning and crafty when she wanted to be, and she'd do anything for her children.

That brought a smile to the boy's face. It was small, but at least he's not that depressed anymore.

"Though it doesn't mean that what Dagmer said was false," she said kindly. "Ironborn are hardheaded and stubborn. Even when time thinned our blood and diluted it with the invasion of the Andals," she paused when she said this, her hand patting one of the braids in her auburn hair, "we could still hear the call of our true nature."

"What do you mean?"

She gave him a twinkling smile. "Hmm, tell me, my son, why did you choose this place to find solace?"

"I don't know," the boy answered, his expression becoming thoughtful. "I just thought it was beautiful here. My room is nice too, but I can't go there. Daena isn't allowed in the Sea Tower so she can't accompany me. I'm still prohibited from walking the bridges alone."

"Good boy," the mother praised proudly. "But I know why. It's because of the sea," she said, her eyes turning to the darkening horizon."Can you hear it? The waves are calling for you.

"Every one of us hears that echo—that call towards belligerence and war; to realize the joys in victory and the loss of defeat. That's why some of us couldn't let go of the Old Way, the reason why there are some like Daena in the Keeps. The Ironborn flourish in the battlefield, my son, even the most wonderful and softhearted ones." She fondly tweaked his nose, indicating whom she meant. "I wanted to protect you, to keep you innocent for at least a little while longer. You were so different when you were born—so bright and special that I didn't want the savage ways of our people to corrupt you. I'm sure your siblings and, maybe to some extent, you father had seen that too."

"I understand, Mother," he said, his smile conveying honesty. This brought relief to the concerned mother.

"I am glad," she replied, hugging him again. "You are my beloved child," she told him, "a precious gift from the stars."

Shirou's heart warmed. It was a special feeling, to know and _feel_ that you were cherished. It was the unconditional love of a mother, he realized, one he had never felt before. It could never be defined, it was a feeling he never wanted to live without again.

The matriarch of Pyke and the reincarnated magus conversed there for a while. The young boy reveled in the warmth and care of a mother—his mother, as she told him stories and myths about their ancestors. The coated and light histories the Maesters taught him were so dull and bland compared to the three-dimensional and colorful truth of the Ironborn's legacy, and he found that despite the cruelty and viciousness of it all, it was something that was deeply engraved in their culture and tradition.

It seemed like a horrible wake-up call in one way, because it made him realize that the peace and contentment he expected in his second chance at life was farther away than he'd thought. In this hardy place, living with hardy men, he would have to work hard to attain it.

Now he knew what to expect from his race.


	4. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

 _286 AC_

"Maron. You're back!" Asha joyfully exclaimed at the face that greeted her when she finally pried away the fingers that covered her eyes.

"Indeed, I am, milady," Maron replied, his honey-brown eyes twinkling amusedly.

Asha pouted at the honorific he gave her. She hated being called a lady.

"Oh, and with impeccable timing as ever," she said, her eyes lighting with an idea. She closed the opened tome in front of her and shot a quick look at the ajar doors that led to the Maester's study. "Hey, Maester Wendamyr, I'll get back to my studies later! Maron just came home and he wants to catch up with his awesome little sister!"

Before the old Maester could even think of any reply, Asha had already grabbed Maron's hand and quickly led him out of the room.

"Where have you been, Maron? How _have_ you been? What have you been up to this past few months? Mother was awfully worried about you, and you never even sent a letter!" Asha said energetically, walking beside him along the Bloody Keep's corridors.

"I've come around," Maron answered, a little wistful. Asha was sure there was a story somewhere there but she decided not to push it. "Look, I got this for you on the way," he added, handing her a dirk in a scabbard.

Asha's face immediately lit up, taking the offered knife and unsheathing it. It was a lovely little thing; a foot long with its handle delicately and intricately designed with great detail. "Wow," she said with awe in her voice. "How beautiful! Thank you, Maron."

"Of course, Lady Asha," he replied teasingly.

"If you don't want your new gift soaked in your own blood in the next instant, you'd quit it already," Asha sharply retorted. She put back the blade in its sheath and strapped it on her hip.

Maron snickered as he watched her, amused. "Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, "if you could just point me to the right direction of a certain princeling, I'd be able to hand him his own present."

Asha tilted her head at her brother, finally noticing the lashed quiver across his torso and the cloth-covered baggage he carried. Oh. Theon would be most delighted to have that, no doubt. But Asha had the feeling that he'll appreciate a sword more.

"Have you tried his room?" she asked.

"I have," answered Maron. "He was not there."

Asha more than expected that. Theon had been growing rapidly this past few months. Why, just last week did they realize that he could finally reach the handholds of the swaying bridges, much to the horror of their readily anxious mother. With that bit of growth spurt, he could now in turn have more freedom, what with not needing any more assistance when crossing the bridges. That wouldn't be much of a problem (except to their worrywart of a mother) if the boy wasn't so curious and astonishingly athletic in wandering around the whole of the fortress. It was a blessing that he could also be awfully predictable at times.

"Then he's most likely in the Kitchen Keep," Asha replied with certainty.

"The Kitchen Keep? Why would he be there?" Maron asked with much disbelief.

"You'll know when we get there," she said, grinning mischievously. "Besides, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise for you."

The second heir of the Lord Reaper of Pyke followed his little sister with a bewildered expression as she knowingly navigated around the halls of the keeps, leading him to the looming structure of the Kitchen Keep. The covered stone archway that connected the particular Keep to its adjoining towers and the Bloody Keep was short, and the moment he came close to the gaping wooden door, he could already smell the heavenly aroma permeating from inside it. Maron raised a brow, his mouth practically salivating at the thought of wolfing down whatever was sweltering within the Kitchen Keep. Fortunately, Asha was already dragging him inside, the look on her face just as ravenous as his.

"—no, you add the onion and salt later. The meat should be a bit more browned," the unmistakable sound of Theon's voice resonated inside the kitchen, the childish lilt of his tone was difficult to miss.

Asha almost laughed outright at her big brother's expression when the sight inside the Kitchen Keep finally greeted them. The older Greyjoy was more than a little perplexed to see their youngest sibling sitting atop one of the tables of the Pyke's kitchen while he directed the servants in preparing the fortress's dinner. He didn't know what was more surprising; the fact that the little boy had taken over the kitchen and was interacting with the servants and thralls alike, the giant black cat purring languidly below his feet, Rodrick and Dagmer sitting in the corner while they patiently drooled at the steaming food, the food itself that had suddenly gained a refreshing variety since his absence, or all of the above.

"Am I too late for taste testing?" Asha asked loudly, obtaining the attention of her little brother in the process.

"Not at all, Asha," the boy replied, and then his interest slid to her companion. The red-headed boy perked at seeing both of them, the older one more than the little girl. He immediately slid from his perch on the table and ran to Maron. The newly arrived seafarer recovered just in time to smile at his little brother who looked at him with large expectant golden-amber eyes. "Maron!"

"Hey there, little guy," Maron greeted with a fond lopsided smile. He hugged his little brother tightly. "Look at you. I think you've grown several inches since I came home last!" he teased.

"You were gone for three months, Maron," Theon said.

"Exactly!" the older man replied. "You grow up too fast. Soon, you'll be a burly bag of muscles like Rodrik over there!"

Hearing the voice of the newly arrived seafarer finally snapped the deranged glint within the rest of the current occupants of the Kitchen Keep's eyes, including Rodrik and Dagmer who had just the courtesy to wipe the slaver running along their chins.

"Welcome home, Maron," the eldest son of Balon told him with a non-too-gentle pat on the back and a jovial grin plastered on his face. "Good to have 'ya back."

"It's good to be home, brother," responded the younger one.

"Oh, how charming. Balon's li'l spawns all in one place; it brings tears to me eyes," Dagmer butted in sarcastically.

"Shut up, old man," Rodrik barked.

"So, care to enlighten me the cause of this casual kitchen gathering?"Maron asked, his arms spreading wide to gesture at everything around him, his eyes pointedly shifting from his oldest to his youngest brother, and then, distractedly, to the strange black feline snugly lazing by the heat of the burning furnace. "And what kind of cat is _that_? Is that even a cat?"

Said cat observed the unnerved older Greyjoy for a minute, yawned—its inch long fangs unbarred for all to see, and then curled back to sleep by the fire cozily. It was too humungous to be even remotely considered a tabby; two feet in length and probably about taller than the height of his calf when it stood on all fours, with its tail two-thirds as long as its body. Its eyes were luminous green, its shiny, slick fur pitch black as night, and its undoubtedly sharp teeth and claws the color of silvery steel. If Maron would honestly identify it, it was more of an untamable feral predator, not a domesticated house pet.

"Her name is Rin. She's Theon's cat," Asha supplied helpfully. "I don't really know what he feeds it. I swear that thing was smaller last time I saw it."

"She likes her fish raw and fresh," the little boy said, his hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, "I don't know why she became like that either. And to tell the truth, I think she's still not yet done with growing." That earned a lot of raised eyebrow from his siblings. "Maybe it speaks well of my ability totake care of pets?"

"Or mayhap you just spoil her rotten," Asha quipped wryly.

Theon looked abashed at that, but did not say a word to refute it. "That's a nice knife," he complimented, stirring the conversation away from the topic of his magical cat.

Asha bit the bait with no trouble at all. "It is," she replied with a proud smile. "Maron gave it to me as a gift. Actually, he has one for you, too."

At the look the girl gave him, Maron remembered why he was looking for his youngest brother in the first place. He unclasped the quiver fastened across his shoulders and presented it to Theon. The little boy came closer to him, his eyes wide with curiosity. He accepted the wrapped bundle Maron gave him along with the quiver and undone its bindings like an over-excited kid (which he was).

The reincarnated magus in Theon recognized the master-crafted weapon with sight alone, filling him with inexplicable elation; but of course that could be just the sword aspect of him giving in to his natural instinct at the prospect of another addition to his armory.

The bow was a strange thing, made of some kind of botched up affair of black wood and other indiscernible things, layered together in an extremely elaborate design. It was still unstrung, and looked like a motley 'W' with slithering unfathomable pattern glued together in what looked to be whatever things the maker could get his hands onto.

"What is that? It looks hideous," Asha told Theon, voice low and a bit apprehensive.

Rodrik raised an eyebrow at the bizarre weapon, taking it in his hands and experimentally bending the two ends where the string was supposed to go, and was very much stunned at the lack of tension in them.

"What in gallows tree is this?" he said, incredulous.

"Looks useless to me," Dagmer added, noting the obvious impracticality of the bow's draw even if it was securely strung.

"It's a recurve bow," the youngest in the room recognized, his head tilted and an exultant smile firmly fixed on his lips as he eyed the black bow excitedly.

"That it is," Maron said, not the least bit condescending. "I'm surprised you knew about it, Theon. The crafter told me it was some kind of new revolutionary design for bows. I found it on my way home from Myr. I thought it was something you would like."

With a somewhat competitive expression, Rodrik tried to figure out how the bow works again, bending it over only to be met with ludicrous failure. The eldest Greyjoy's attempt only earned him an entertained snicker from Asha.

"You're doing it wrong," Theon said with a furrowed brow. "You're supposed to bend it backwards."

""What?"" was the simultaneous question of the three male adults in varying degrees of confusion. Asha's shoulders shook with mirth, Theon looking incredulously at the bearer of the gift who he thought actually knew what the item he was giving. Maron let out an embarrassed cough.

Rodrik's eyebrows knitted, struggling to go along with Theon's suggestion and bending the woodwork in the right way, only to be slapped in the face by said piece of wood. Asha outright guffawed at the smacking sound that rang inside the keep, the oldest Greyjoy cursing sharply and the look in his face becoming enraged. A round of suppressed laughter resounded among the eavesdroppers and spectators, Theon and Maron regarding their scarred, muscled brother with an amused expression.

"I think you should leave that be for Theon, Rodrik," Maron said. "You're only making a fool of yourself."

Rodrik gave the bow a blistering glare, and then forcefully handed it back to his youngest brother. Theon accepted it, smiling lightly at the irate Greyjoy.

"I can't believe we're all together for once," Asha said, regarding all her brothers with a fond smile.

"I can't believe you're that awed about every little thing," Maron said.

"I think she's just being sentimental. Mother said it had something to do with being a girl," Theon joked. Asha scowled at him.

"It has nothing to do with my gender, you twit," Asha retorted. "It's just that, Rodrik and Maron are gone too often. We should do this thing every once in a while."

"This… thing?" Rodrik asked.

"You know, gathering together! Just spending time with each other and stuff," Asha explained.

"And stuff?" Maron teased.

Asha rolled her eyes. "You are all incorrigibly horrible brothers."

Maron laughed. "If you must know, father called us home. After all, we all need to be here together for when father officially proclaims the rebellion against the Iron Throne to our Lord Captains and banner men. They will all be here in the morrow, surely."

"Rebellion?" Asha and Theon gasped.

"What rebellion?" Theon persisted, a look of something akin to a sharp edge gaining on his eyes. The humor and lightheartedness was gone from his face, replaced by a slew of confusion, shock, and anger. The transition was almost too jarring; a boy of six to a veteran warrior in a blink of an eye. The hairs at the back of Maron's neck bristled.

"You… didn't know?" Maron asked, confused. He glanced at Rodrik who avoided his eyes and whistled to the side. He then glanced at Dagmer who shrugged.

"I knew," Dagmer owned. "Not officially though. Lord Balon's been planning for it for months. Ain't a secret really."

"Yeah, listen to Dagmer, Theon," Rodrik said with a sheepish smile. "You and Asha are just so awfully out of the loop."

Theon glared at his oldest brother. One thing he hated about being a little kid, and the youngest one among his siblings at that, was that no one ever told him anything. His mother was awfully overprotective of him, keeping things she thought detrimental to his innocence away from his knowledge. For Pete's sake, he was an adult! He can handle grown-up stuffs! Now, if only someone would believe him…

"For _months_?" Asha asked incredulously. "How long did _you_ know, Rodrik?"

"Uhh," Rodrik thought aloud, "since two months ago? Father sent us ravens in ports," he said. "I thought you already knew! I sparred with li'l guy over there every morning since I came back and I thought he was training for it. He's pretty deadly, by the way; I lost every time."

"Hear, hear," Dagmer butted in, agreeing wholeheartedly with the oldest of Balon's sons.

"I'm talking to father," Theon finally said, walking past Maron and Asha and briskly taking the direction towards Lord Balon's war room in the Great Keep.

Asha, her older brothers, Cleftjaw, and the bustling servants watched him go.

"I have a barrel of old wine from Myr that says that talk won't go well," Maron said when the boy was finally gone.

"I'll take that and the bear carpet in my Wind Breaker, and say he'll probably get slapped," Rodrik goaded.

"I'll take all of that along with my favorite dirk and say he'll be axed on the face," Dagmer said.

Asha glared at all of them. "You're all being stupid," she said. "But I'll say that father will lose in their argument," Asha added, "and I'm betting Theon's cooking."

Her two brothers squinted at her while Dagmer gave her a shrewd look.

* * *

Lord Balon Greyjoy was a man of pride. There was a small number of things he took pride in, but those he did were valued most closely to his stone-cold heart.

He was raised as a leader since the moment he was born, trained and taught to be the ruler of his people. He took pride in that, lording over his scraggly, noisy, rambunctious Ironborn. Ironborn were a people of warriors, each individual excelling in the arts of battle with an undisputed savagery and unrelenting thirst for blood and conflict. After all, it took a lot of stress to manage and lead such kind of people. In a world where the strong stood above the weak, his hardy ironmen were the best kind of people to flourish.

Lord Balon took pride in his ships. The Lord Reaper of Pyke was a lord of seafarers, of a people who lived and breathed with the sea. The waves were their friend, the stars their guide, and the wind was their warden. Building longships that was unmatched in quality and make has long been the envy of the Outsiders from the Ironborn. Their ships was the reason they were known far across the Narrow Sea as the rulers of the sea and riverlands. When an Ironborn held on his ship in any body of water, victory was undeniable.

Lord Balon Greyjoy wanted only the best for his people. He wanted to give them what they craved and what they deserved, something that has been denied from them for three centuries.

 _We do not sow._

Ironborn do _not_ sow. Farming the lands and mining through rocks was not an honorable work for his people, they were meant to wage wars, to carve their names in stones and history through blood and fire. The riverlands once belonged to them, everything that encompassed on the Neck and down to the halls of Harrenhal were theirs. Ironborn had been glorified then, the lot of those pesky Outsiders trembling in awe and fear at the mere sight of them.

It all crumbled down to dust and ashes when Aegon flew on his dragon and destroyed everything the Ironborn had built. He came like an unadvertised storm, wrecking everything in his path and bathing it in flames. The Ironborn held no love for that conqueror, no, not when he pieced their domain into fragments and distributed it like little giveaways to cowardly, undeserving slaves. Aegon I Targaryen gave the lordship of the Iron Islands to Lord Balon's great ancestor when Harren and his heirs had been roasted in his castle. The Lord Greyjoy then had wanted no part in receiving such privilege, being given a crown that he did not earn, but the Ironborn had chosen him to be their new leader, and so the Greyjoys had stood for their people ever since.

Now it was his turn. For three hundred years, the Ironborn had remained docile and isolated, _now_ it was their turn to reclaim what was theirs. The Targaryens no longer sat on the Iron Throne, and so their oath was now null and void. His people had waited for three centuries, but they had not lingered in stagnancy for those times. They had trained, they honed their skills, and they bettered themselves for this opportunity. The monarchy was shaking on their new legs, the king was but a mere fawn, his army was scattered, and there were no more dragons to swoop in and save them. If no one would take the fresh prey, then the Ironborn will seize the hunt. His people were parched for blood and their bones itched for war; they were rearing for it. Now was the time to strike.

Lord Balon Greyjoy had three sons, each of them an exceptional individual of their own. Although he wouldn't openly show it, he took pride in his children. They were his legacy, his flesh and blood. More than anything else, he clutched that pride closer to his heart. He would never tell them how much seeing them blossom and prosper made him feel a bit more complete as a human being.

There was however, one hiccup in his cusp of ultimate completion. His youngest son, his naïve and well-sheltered son, the Lord Reaper of Pyke scowled at the thought of Theon Greyjoy.

His youngest child had the most potential out of all his children. He held his weapons as if they were his lovers, he flourished and fought admirably in his training; he had never been defeated since he started sparring although he was small and slight, and he was undeniably the most accurate marksman he'd ever seen in his life, and the boy was just barely six namedays old!The child was an exemplar Ironborn when a weapon was on his grasp, the most perfect anyone could ever get, but he was… too gentle, too soft.

The furrows on Lord Balon's mouth deepened. His wife had cuddled him too much. He smiled too easily and cared about the most trivial and inconsequential things. He mingled with the thralls as if they were his equals, and had even started cooking in the Kitchen Keep since he started to grow a couple of inch bigger. Pyke has definitely lightened from the time when he was born, but the world beyond has no place for his humble morals and intrepid yet foolish ideals.

Perhaps it was time he had a talk with that boy. With the Rebellion in his agenda, it was bound to happen that he'll butt heads with that uncultivated child. It was in fate's design anyway, because when Lord Balon Greyjoy entered the dimly lit war room that led to his study, the boy was already there waiting for him.

The lit candelabras shadowed the little boy's face, his eyes a warm amber but his brows were kneaded into a knot. Inwardly, Lord Balon sighed pensively. _Here it is_ , he thought, _the questions_.

"Why, father?" Theon asked as soon as he closed the door, standing up from his seat opposite the large war table. "Why are you starting a war? I thought we're reaching out to the rest of Westeros through peace?"

Lord Balon scoffed, brandishing his long dark cloak to the side as he stepped within the chamber. Theon Greyjoy was especially literate for a child of six—truly a wonderful gift in many ways, but not when he straightforwardly challenged his own father.

"Peace," the Lord Reaper repeated, spitting the word with disgust. "Peace is not part of the Ironborn way. Peace makes men banal and stultified. Peace has no glory, no celebration of the survivor; it has no place for the heroes, for history—it has no place for our race," the old man said.

"You're risking your people, your kinsmen—us, your family, all for the glory of war? If a battle is all the Ironborn craved, then I will fight them every day. I will defeat each and every one of them till their blood mellows, and I'll defeat them again day after day if I have to," Theon declared determinedly. "Please father, stop this. Don't declare war against the Iron Throne. I'll do something, _anything_. There's no need to wage war; it would be completely pointless anyway. What will this achieve? We've lived for three hundred years here in the Iron Islands in peace, and it hadn't shriveled our nature. Why do you have to do this when all of us are content with the way things are?"

The Lord Reaper scowled at his son. Truly, the boy was just too naïve. "You are so pitifully blind, boy," he told him. "You had been raised too sheltered, cuddled like a newborn babe every day that you speak of things you do not understand. You stand here arguing for peace, talking of contentment, but what do you know of contentment, boy? You're just a child. You do not know and yet to feel the boil in your blood—that thirst, unquenchable and true, deep in your gut, for the blood of your enemies to drench your soul. You do not see the world beyond our islands, see the riverlands and the hinterlands, and the disgusting villagers and smallfolks as they lavished in resources our race has loath to enjoy. We rot and toil in these small barren islands while those undeserving worms sapped the lands that were once ours dry!

"You see our people behind rose-tinted glass, and thought that all of them think the way you do. You think they are content? Hah! Then, you are indeed too naïve and ignorant!"

"So that's what you really want then? The hinterlands and riverlands that were once under the tyranny of Harren the Black? You want to give the Ironborn what they truly deserve? What a joke. In truth, all you want is to glorify the Old Way and bring back the savagery of the Ironborn!

"You, you are just an overambitious dotard!" he hollered at his father.

Lord Balon glowered, crossing the distance between them with sauntering steps. A resounding slap echoed inside the room, the boy's face tilted sideways as a red mark blossomed on his cheek. "Do not take that tone with me, boy," the Lord rasped angrily.

"If you really want to do anything, then fight for your kin! Train hard, learn, and conquer. I am the Lord Reaper of Pyke. I am your father, and you will do as I told. My word still governs all that I rule, and if you will not uphold my word in war, boy, then it's best you do not step on the fields of battle at all. Hold onto your stupid ideals of peace and cower in the embrace of your mother while real men fight for the glories of war. You will just be a liability when your resolve is that soft."

Theon clenched his fists so hard he was drawing blood on his nails, his knuckles turning white as parchment.

War, his father wanted war. Why? There was no glory in war; no victory. Always, there was only loss and defeat. Emiya Shirou hated war although he did fought on a number of them during his life. It went against his ideals. Theon would have tolerated the thought of fighting in one once again, even contribute greatly if his own people wouldn't be initiating the war, if only it was in their defense at least. However, what Lord Balon wanted was to spark a war, risk his men and his people and rebel against the rest of the entirety Westeros, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Even if the Usurper was barely established on the throne, he was still a man that had an army at his fingertips, an army that encompassed the entire mainland. The Iron Islands was a mere speck in scope of that, even when the Ironborn warriors were a formidable force to be reckoned with. That was suicide no matter how he viewed it.

The Ironborn was already hated by the rest of Westeros. Being a people with cultures and traditions that were so far removed from the other realms of the Seven Kingdoms, they were looked upon as barbaric savages. For the three centuries that came to past since Harren the Black fell, Theon could safely assume that the Ironborn had improved in so many ways.

Lord Balon was sacrificing all that, everything they had been for the past three hundred years and will become in the future.

The loss will ruin his people. When— _not if_ , for their defeat was certain anyway—this settled, the Ironborn would be left with nothing, and that's the better scenario—the worst case would be _genocide_. He can't, couldn't let that happen!

He had already learned his lesson when he met Archer, how tragic was the path of a hero who dreamed of saving everyone. He knew it was an impossible dream, that to save one life he must forsake another; it was the truth of reality. It was always a matter of choosing which side you're going to save. This time however, his choice was to save his people.

"No," he answered defiantly. "I won't let you destroy our people, Father."

Lord Balon opened his mouth to say something, but Theon spoke before he could.

"If you think I'm gonna sit here twiddling my thumbs while you lead the Ironborn into a slaughter, then you're wrong. I will fight, but I won't be fighting for you. I will never let you win; I swear that upon my life," he said resolutely, his eyes burning with fire.

The little boy stared dead in the eyes of the Lord Reaper of Pyke with such passionate determination that he was at a loss for words. Not until the boy turned to leave and walk away did the old Lord let go of the breath he was holding. He whole-heartedly believed then and there that his life had been in danger in that moment of intensity, and if his young son had truly decided to kill him, he would not be able to do one wit about it.

* * *

The two combatants circled around—sizing each other up. Quite an odd sight the pair of them made in the center of the training grounds, and it might be the reason why their spectators were multiplying by the second.

The first figure was a little boy about three feet tall. He was dressed in full armor, including a helmet that protected his head but left his youthful face in the open. He held two blunt training swords in both hands, his posture a little crouched and sideways, and had a foot always a step forward. His opponent was a tall man wearing only half his armor with no helmet. He had his shoulder length black hair pulled to a low ponytail at the back of his neck, a scar running down from his temple and through his left eye. His eyes shone like black obsidians in the glint of the setting sun, the beard and moustache on his face concealing the excited grin on his lips. In contrast to the boy, the man held a battleaxe, his feet flat on the ground with his knees bent.

"Go Rodrick! Come'n Theon! Fight, fight, fight!" Asha cheered exuberantly on the sidelines, standing with the rest of their audience.

"Quiet, 'ye l'il princess," Dagmer barked beside her.

Asha whirled on Pyke's Master-at-Arms, pulled her lower eyelid and stuck her tongue out. She hated being called a princess. Dagmer glowered at her but the effect was lost because the girl had swiftly returned her attention to her two brothers.

Rodrik had mostly spent his free time sparring with his brother. After declaring his resolution to join the fight against the throne, Theon had been indulging anyone who would like to train with him. Not that anyone had ever defeated him, and that was the reason Rodrik had all but stole every chance he could get just to down his little brother. It was always quite a spectacle, the older man, that is. Time and time again losing to a kid whom was just half his size and a third of his age. Then again, no one had ever won against him; one just have to wonder why anyone still even bothered.

Dagmer cringed when Rodrik fell for the third time in a row. For all of the larger Greyjoy's muscles and strength, it was all useless when he couldn't even land a blow. Theon was quick on his feet and quite agile, hitting his opponent in unguarded weak spots with swift precision. It was fascinating to watch sometimes, seeing him fluidly moving around Rodrik's hefty swings.

"Urgh," Rodrik grunted, spewing spit towards the dirt and pulling himself up by his axe. "There goes my favorite set of throwing knives. It was a souvenir, too," he said, almost disappointed.

Asha chortled. "Keep that up, Rodrik, and maybe before the Rebellion even starts, you'll already have your ship bare," she hollered. Laughter echoed around the circle of gathered onlookers. Rodrik grumbled, glaring at them challengingly.

"I'm fighting him next," Maron interjected, parting the crowd of spectators as he twirled his spear. "I'll put the horsehide you've been courting from me on the line, brother."

The brown-haired teenager gave his youngest sibling a smirk, taking a ready stance. Theon smiled back, straitening up and brandishing his left sword to hold it in a reverse grip, and then assuming a one-handed stance with his right poised in front of him.

Sparring with Theon had been something of a legend ever since the Lord Captains had arrived in Lordsport, his undefeated streak gaining so much attention that the Lords demanded him to prove if it is true. Theon was a shy boy and was naught to show off if he could help it, but after his conversation with his father, he had indulged anyone and everyone who would dare challenge him to a sparring duel. The amount of wagered treasures Theon collected had grown to a mountain since then, more than a large part of it was from his two juvenile brothers. Not that anyone ever gained nothing back from sparring with the boy. Every time he knocks down someone, he also tells them how to get back up, giving them advice on how to improve and fight better.

When Maron hit the dirt again, Theon offered him his spear. The older boy grabbed its jagged wooden shaft and Theon pulled him up.

"You covered your weak spots better," he praised. "You just gained a bad habit of telegraphing your moves though."

"Oh, man," Maron said, deflating. "I thought I could get away with it. I'll beat you next time, li'l guy. Count on it!"

"That's what you've been saying the past dozen or so times." Asha sniggered.

Maron crossed his arms and pouted at her. "Well, I don't see you challenging him, lassie, so I don't want to hear your smarts," he replied with a harrumph.

"Alright, alright, that's enough fer today," Dagmer butted in, stepping inside the circle and shooing everyone away. "Young Krakens off to the baths. You all stink!"

"You're one to talk, old man," Rodrik duly replied, but scampered off with his younger siblings when Cleftjaw glowered at him.

The bathroom that Dagmer mentioned was a facility in the training grounds wherein all trainees could clean themselves. The Greyjoy children often used it after a day of exertion, considering their rooms where at the opposite side of the stronghold, and in a tower at that so it was much easier to just take their baths there.

As Asha separated from the boys, Rodrok grabbed Theon by the back of his tunic and put his arms around his neck.

"Hey!" Theon gasped in surprise, squirming from his brother's headlock as the visor of his helmet blocked his vision.

"Come one, li'l bro. We'll head to the baths together, aye?" Rodrik said with a grin.

"I can go there with my own two feet!" the boy protested.

"And where's the fun in that?" Rodrik replied with a laugh.

Maron rolled his eyes at them. "You're being rambunctious, Rodrik. Stop bullying the prodigious little Kraken," he chided. "That being said, last one to the baths is a rotten fish!"

* * *

 **a/n:** This is what I wanted to add. The transition of the Greyjoy heirs from affectionate juvenile brothers to conquering reavers. They were only ever mentioned in the books, so I'm gonna make them as if my own OC and then develop their characters from there, and then I'm gonna kill them. Lol. I'll add more chapters about the Rebellion, too; how it began, and how it will end. The plot, as I've said in my a/n in the prologue, would remain the same. So if you've read the original story I've posted here on FFnet before I took it down, then yes, whatever direction I took the story then, that is also where I'll take this rewrite.

Now, if only the lot of you actually reads my a/n, then perhaps you wouldn't be asking questions I've already answered.

Thank you for reading!


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